Roleplay
by Sleeping Sailboats
Summary: What happens in Vegas...should end because it involves a prostitution ring, kidnappers, death threats, knives, internal conflict, and hangovers. Lots and lots of hangovers. Rated T for sexual themes.


"Gin and tonic."

He can barely get the words out with this woman staring at him. She's a petite blonde with legs that can probably do all sorts of things, things he wouldn't mind seeing himself. Her sultry eyes grazing over his face nearly make his American accent slip as he orders the first drink that comes to mind. And that _dress_. It feels like a challenge, almost: Does he dare glance below the bar? She had slid into the seat next to his two minutes ago, and they hadn't spoken a word to each other yet. They just looked at each other, partly out of curiosity, and partly out of lust. Normally, he wouldn't mind being in the company of such a woman, but she was making him lose focus. Maybe it was her eyes. Or the dress…Did he really just order a gin and tonic? He's not going to drink it, of course. It's just for keeping up with appearances, for seeming like the average man in a Vegas bar.

"Right away, sir. And you, ma'am?"

Those smokey eyes roll in the source of the voice, a seductive motion that earns her a nervous smile from the bartender. "Appletini, baby boy. And don't make it too easy to drink." He watches as her tongue circles her painted lips before she bites the lower one. Sherlock tells himself to not get distracted, not to think about the fact that she's probably not wearing anything underneath that tiny little dress. There's a reason he's talking to this woman, why he's in Vegas in the first place. "I'm Cassidy," she purrs, leaning forward slightly as if she were divulging private information. If he says the right thing, however, she may be doing so shortly.

"Hello, Cassidy. My name is Garrett." God, why did he ever pick that alias? He hates it, but it's too late to change it now.

"Mmm." Is that all she has to say? Sherlock's dealt with women like this before, women that just use their allure to keep the "conversation" going, not really contributing anything intellectual or even remotely interesting. But that's not going to do for him. He's here for a reason, and he needs information. "What are you doing here, Cassidy?" The drinks arrive, and the bartender seems a little disappointed that she won't take her eyes off Sherlock. He had probably been planning to scribble down his number on her bill or catch her in the lobby after his shift has ended. He lingers for a moment before addressing a patron in a fedora. "I'm here for business," she answers as she raises her glass up to her lips. "I work in marketing. What are _you _doing here, Garrett?" She sips the appletini, her eyes never straying for a second. Eye contact was her specialty, it seemed. He doesn't believe her for a second, but doesn't question her occupation. Not yet. "I'm an attorney, actually. But I'm just here on a trip with my friends."

"And...how are you enjoying your stay so far?" She sounds like a bellhop or flight attendant, not at all as flirty as she probably intended. Most likely realizing her change in tone, she leans in even closer with a crooked smile. Sherlock joins her at that proximity, his lips brushing over her cheek as he goes to whisper in her ear. "Right now? It's fantastic." She giggles and takes his hand, pulling him from the chair. _Well, that didn't take long. _"Hey, you have to pay for those!" the bartender calls after them as they begin to make their way toward the exit. Without hesitation he slaps down a hundred dollar bill and follows Cassidy to the elevator.

* * *

He was right, of course-there's nothing under that black number except for luminous, tan skin. Unfortunately, he doesn't have much of a chance to observe. As soon as they enter Cassidy's room, she's unzipped herself and pushed him against a wall. She's a hell of a good kisser, and it's nearly impossible to break away to murmur, "What's his name?"

At first, she pretends not to hear him, pressing her lips to his throat. But he doesn't let her dodge the question: He grabs her wrists and yanks them to the side, making her look at him in alarm. "What's his name?" he asks again, this time with more of a growl. "I know you know who I'm talking about." She scoffs, then realizes he's serious, and her eyes widen. "Tell me, Cassidy, what _do _you do for a living? Because we both know that a woman who works in accounting doesn't need to sell her body for money." She pulls her hands away and crosses her arms to hide her chest. "You better be somebody important," she snaps. "Because unless you're the damn Pope, he's not going to want to talk to you."

"True, although I highly doubt the Pope would go scouting for prostitutes."

He surveys the room. "Is this even yours?" Rolling her eyes, she picks her dress off the floor and steps back into it. "No, it's some douchebag's. We got together last night and I swiped a room key." He waits patiently as she zips up the back and messes with her hair for a moment. "So tell me, 'Garrett,' what are you going to do if I don't tell you his name?" She thinks she's got him, that he's going to realize he doesn't have an answer and run away in shame. But no one has ever "gotten" Sherlock Holmes.

"Nothing."

She smirks, thinking she has him. She begins walking toward the door when he delivers the rebuttal. "But all you're doing is denying yourself help." She pauses, her back still to him. "See, you didn't ask _why _I wanted his name. You probably thought I was going to put a bullet in his head, yeah? And you were worried because you feel obligated to protect him. Not just because he's kept a roof over your head, but because there have been serious threats made against you in case you were to let their identities slip." She's slightly angled toward him now, her head bowed. "You're unhappy, aren't you, Cassidy? You put on this charade that you're okay with everything, but you're not. You were in a rough bind a few years ago, and unfortunately you're still working this job. Bouncing from hotel room to hotel room, client to client, just trying to take care of yourself. You want to be free from this, don't you?" He can see her nod as she wraps her arms around herself. He decides to drop the persona just this time and return to his familiar, much-loved British tone. "My name is Sherlock Holmes, and I am a consultant for the NYPD. I'm not here to kill anyone, but to give some very bad people what they deserve. Imprisonment. For a long time."

Silent tears are cascading down her face, and as she looks up at him and faintly whispers, "Thank you," he feels a surprising twinge of sympathy. He's never been one to feel sorry for prostitutes—after all, don't they choose their path? But then again, it seems Cassidy never got to choose much of anything. Whatever situation she had been in all those years ago that had landed her here, she never chose any of that. Who would?

"West Lowry."

"That's his name?" Without responding she rushes from the room, as if already on the run from her employer. "Brave girl," he says to himself before putting back on the tie that she had undone.

* * *

Cassidy knew that she didn't have tell him where West Lowry was. Once all the glasses were empty and all the money was spent, people went to the Hyde nightclub. Most of them drank even more, mooching off of people that hadn't yet blown their money on the slot machines. Sherlock wasn't one for clubs, only finding entertainment in watching sloppily drunk women get into petty slap-fights or try to dance. He wouldn't have much time for that, however, since the only person on his mind was West Lowry. And someone else…

Amidst the crowds of people trying to find a way into Hyde, he's able to spot the bouncers. One's telling a disheveled redhead that she couldn't bring in her Chihuahua, while the other is watching a bunch of frantic men fan out dollar bills, trying to figure out how big of a bribe would suffice. Every so often they glance up at the hulking gatekeeper, only to be met with an unsatisfied grunt and a headshake. Sherlock nearly considers waiting in line before someone throws up on his shoes. "Um, pardon me," he calls out as he begins to hastily shove his way out of the line and toward the bouncers. "Ayyyy!" drunkenly yells a man whose arm is draped around two women. "We…we were…" He seems to lose his train of thought before asking one of his dates to take her top off.

"Excuse me, gentlemen," he addresses them, not even bothering to become Garrett again. He'll save the accent for Lowry. "I am looking for a Mr. West Lowry. I do believe he is seated somewhere in Hyde, is that correct?" Exchanging glances, the bouncers seem unsure of whether he's trying to be diplomatic or threatening. "Well, it is some rather urgent business, so I would like to converse with him at this time." Not even a sound or twitch of the muscle can be evoked from either of them as they continue to stand with neutral expressions, arms crossed. Clearing his throat, he tries things again. "Gentlemen, I know what's going on within the club walls. And, as someone with connections to a well-known institution known as the New York Police Department, I think it would be rather good of you to let me in just for a chat with Mr. Lowry."

It takes less than a second for them to step to the side and let him in. Smiling in a way that is both grateful and smug, he passes by, ignoring the boos and howls coming from the line of intoxicated imbeciles. Perhaps sobriety, for once, would serve him well. In the past, it had done nothing but remind him that every day he didn't drink was another piece of evidence that he had once had a problem. That he had once let substances and alcohol control him like a puppeteer, while he just hobbled around on weak little strings. Eventually, it had been Watson who came with her scissors and snipped him free. But that didn't make it easy to go another day without a drink and think, "I didn't drink today because there was a time when I was too weak." Maybe he was _still_ weak. He didn't want to get drunk, though, just to be able to have a beer with Gregson or discuss case files with Watson over a single glass of wine. They would be small things, but they would be all he needed to know that he could handle it. That other people _knew _he could handle it. But they didn't. And they had reason not to.

The thoughts churning around in his mind distract him from the music he so despises: Nothing but loud bass that unskilled dancers could bounce around to and grind against one another like animals in heat. Few waitresses knew exactly who Lowry is, one of which just suggested he check for him on the couches. "If he's that important, he's probably at the terrace near the fountain."

He doesn't know where the bloody fountain is, so he just begins to lightly jog through the club, trying not to get stuck in one place for too long. Although he'd never been to Vegas, he knew that this was the place where you could very easily be accused of hitting on someone's fiancée or stealing money from someone's boss. The problem was, he had no idea what this man looked like. The only way he would know would be if…

There she was.

Watson.

Sitting on the lap of some sleazy-looking man with a cigar hanging out of his mouth. It was a sick sight, especially since the man couldn't take his eyes off of her, which led to a majority of his smoke being puffed into her face. She waved it off without a care, though, just smiling and laughing at the jokes that Sherlock could only imagine how terrible they were. He hoped to God it was Adam Lowry leering at her, telling her, "You look amazing in that dress, baby doll, but probably even better without it," because Watson knows better than to associate with men like that on her own terms. Men that didn't treat her for what she's worth. Watson's smart enough, that he knows.

"Mr. Lowry!" he cheerfully greets him, keeping it very hidden how much this man already disgusts him. Garrett is back, and he's secretly glad he'd watched so many American films as a child. "My name is Garrett Woodrow, and I was wondering if we could discuss some…business?" Watson watches him, but he pretends not to notice, just like he's supposed to. Unfortunately, it's hard to do so, seeing as she's wearing that stunning red gown that he's never seen before…These thoughts concern him. Watson is an undeniably gorgeous woman, but the fact that they would ever progress to something more than admitting she was attractive was baffling to him. But then again, have those thoughts really strayed elsewhere? Or is the ambiance of the club just putting him off? He ignores them for now, knowing he has more serious matters to attend to than the nature of his feelings for Joan Watson.

"What kinda business?"

"Oh, Mr. Lowry," Sherlock chuckles. "I do believe you know _what business _I'm referring to." Deciding to make things a bit more convincing, he gestures to Watson. "Is this not one of the women that is…shall I say, _involved _in your business?" He can't help but admire Watson's performance as she pretends to be appalled at his "assumption." She begins to get up from Lowry's lap, but he quickly pulls her back down, making Sherlock grimace. "No, no, no, baby, stay here with me," he croons, glaring at Sherlock for seemingly offending the woman he's undoubtedly trying to get into his room later. "She's just a, uh…she's…my date!" he announces with a bit of confidence. "Ain't ya, baby doll?" Watson stands up as though she's in an ad for a fragrance before delicately reaching for his hand and shaking it.

"Tiffany."

Though it may be uncharacteristic of him, Sherlock grins, because things, for the first time in a while, are going according to plan.

"It's _very nice _to meet you, Tiffany."

***deep sigh* This isn't good, okay? I haven't written ANYTHING in months so I am extremely rusty. I promise this will get better as it progresses, and I WILL have a backstory so you know why they're in Vegas, pretending not to know each other, all that jazz. Sorry that things aren't that great to start off but I will try my best to do better next chapter *mwah* **


End file.
